


without honors

by freosan



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Gen, I'm so sorry Gladio I just can't write you being happy, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 20:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13419504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freosan/pseuds/freosan
Summary: After the sun rises, Gladio has one more duty to perform.





	without honors

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4398.html?thread=8086318#cmt8086318) on the kinkmeme:
> 
>  
> 
> _In his family, a tattoo symbolizes duty. Every shield has gotten a bird of prey to symbolize their duty to the king- their devotion. Gladios covered most his torso. But what happens if he fails? What if when or if a shield allows their king to die they have to remove their tattoo. Not with lasers or a cover up, but with burning. And so the larger the tattoo to more a shield is willing to give up for their king._
> 
>  
> 
> _Gladio’s is most of his torso. And his king has died._

He waited until well after the funeral, at least. There was no reason to make everyone worry by sneaking away.

If he did it right, no one would know. People would figure that he was ashamed of the tattoo now, when he started wearing long-sleeved shirts all the time, and they’d be mostly right.

He packed simply for the trip. None of the fluff that Noctis had demanded to keep them comfortable on the road. A bedroll, enough energy bars for a week, some flint and steel, a well-stocked first-aid kid.

And an iron brand.

—

Some traditions belonged to the Lucis Caelums. Only the Lucii, as far as Gladio knew, had ever had sworn Shields. 

Some traditions were part of both families. The tattoo was one of those. Gladio and Noctis, together, had decided on the final design. Noctis wanted people to see it. Gladio wanted to prove just how much he was willing to give for his king.

Some traditions were just for the Amicitias.

This one hadn’t been invoked for a good three hundred years. Twelve generations of Gladio’s ancestors, and seven before that, and almost twenty before _that_ hadn’t needed to participate.

Just him, here at the end of the line.

—

The first hiss of hot steel against flesh felt cold. Gladio had been hit by enough fire spells to know that it would. Cold was good; it meant the nerves had died off, and maybe the rest would hurt less.

It stopped feeling cold very quickly. Gladio barely had the brand pressed to his skin for a second before the heat started to sink in. He ripped it away, taking skin with it, and shoved it back in the fire to glow red again.

His arm fucking _hurt_ , but he ignored it. If he was going to start whining now, he’d never get through this, and that was a shame that he could not bear.

—

All through the long night, he told himself it was okay that he was still here, because his King still had a world to come back to. He couldn’t protect Noctis, where he had gone, but he would come back and Gladio would be ready, to step right in and be used again.

When the sun rose, he knew he’d failed at even that simple task.

—

The first night was hard. He couldn’t sleep, between the fresh burns and the old thoughts. He hadn’t mourned yet. That first night, he did.

There were birds in the trees as the sun went down, but by the time it rose again, they’d all flown away in the face of Gladio’s unrestrained sobs.

It exhausted him so much that he didn’t even think that morning. There was wood to be chopped, and a fire to be stoked, and food and water to choke down so he didn’t succumb to shock. He did it all mechanically, and the first thought he had came as he reached out to lift the brand to his back.

It was, _I’m glad Noct isn’t around to see me like this_.

And then he had to laugh for a while, before he could get back to his work.

—

Gladio used to look up at the empty endless night sky and dream of being with his king again. He’d do better. He must have sworn it a thousand, five thousand times. Any more sacrifices that had to be made, Gladio would make them.

His king would never hurt again. None of the rest of them would either.

Gladio had to face a lot of things about himself, after the dawn, and one was that he couldn’t keep an oath to save someone else’s life. 

—

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Prompto told him.

Gladio shrugged. It was a bad move. The new scabs on his right shoulder cracked and split as he did it. He tried not to flinch and scare Prompto.

Prompto stood, hands outstretched, not quite touching. “What do you need?”

“Not potions,” Gladio told him. “Water. Antiseptic. More firewood.”

Prompto’s face twisted but he obeyed. Firewood first, building up the base of the fire, with all the biggest logs. Gladio couldn’t move those anymore. He should’ve chopped them down more before he started, but he didn’t realize how bad it was going to be.

Prompto took the brand and shoved it in the bucket, hissing and spitting steam, before he went off for more water. Gladio hoped it wasn’t going to crack now. Coming out here once was bad enough. Coming here twice might require more willpower than he had left.

When he got back Prompto immediately knelt down next to Gladio, pulling out antiseptic wipes, exclaiming over some of the deeper burns. Gladio rested his hands on his knees and left him to it. Some of it hurt, but it hurt less than new wounds. And he really didn’t want this to get infected.

“Are you gonna explain any of this?” Prompto asked, somewhere around Gladio’s lower back. “Because from where I’m sitting it looks like you’re doing some kind of fucked-up penance, and I’m not super into letting my friends self-harm. Especially all on their own a full day’s walk out of town. I almost didn’t find you.”

Gladio just grunted. Talking was a distraction he didn’t have strength for.

“It wasn’t your fault, Gladio. It wasn’t any of our faults. Noct got caught up in something way bigger than any of us, okay? There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Gladio hissed through clenched teeth. “Doesn’t matter what I could’ve done.”

“Noct went willingly, remember? Because he wanted the world to carry on. Noct wanted _us_ to carry on. This isn’t… he wouldn’t have wanted you to hurt yourself.”

Gladio heaved air through lungs that didn’t want to fill. “Not Noct’s call anymore.”

—

You couldn’t treat a shield like a sword.

A sword had to go out into the world to be of use. If the blade never hit anybody else, why even bother to carry it? If you didn’t keep it clean and sharp, how was it going to do its job?

A shield could be one giant dent and it could still protect you. It didn’t have to go anywhere. Just had to stay between you and your enemies, until they gave or it did.

Noctis never really got the hang of using his tools as intended.

—

Ignis didn’t say anything at first.

He showed up not long after Prompto, with his own first aid kit and a few precious potions. He almost tried to break one of those over Gladio’s back, but Gladio talked him out of it in time.

“Don’t bother. It would be a waste.” His back, his chest, his ribs all the way around were all a mess of open, oozing wounds, his skin crackling when he twisted.

“I shan’t.” Ignis was all business. Triage. That was what he was good at, making sure that what had to be done, was done, and what didn’t, was left for later. Triage and planning and knowing a hundred thousand things. And taking care of his king.

Gladio wasn’t good at any of that stuff. He had one job to Ignis’s hundred. Maybe he should have branched out more.

Ignis touched his skin, briefly and politely. Gladio hurt too much to even wince. Ignis was kind enough not to mention his pained whine.

“I apologize for intruding on this,” he said.

“Don’t. Jus’ don’t tell Iris. I don’t mind you knowing, but her…”

“She will never know from me.”

Prompto came back from getting more water and did the antiseptic wipes again. Then Ignis helped him stoke the fire. The two of them sat at either side of Gladio and held silent vigil while he did his final duty.

Gladio wouldn’t let them heat the brand, though, or touch it to his skin. Some things a man had to do for himself.

—

They taught Shields - Gladio’s dad taught him - that you couldn’t do it for them. The King had a weight to carry; the Shield could clear the way, but the King had to carry that weight on his own. And you had to remember: a shield was a burden, in and of itself.

Gladio should have taught his King to trust his Shield. He spent so damn long teaching him how to use every other weapon under the sun. But Noctis couldn’t ever get the balance of Gladio's weight in his hand.

Noctis was dead. At the last, he hadn’t raised his shield.

Gladio would probably always wonder if he had tried. 

—

When he reached the eagle’s face, curled over his chest, he wavered. Could remember, years and years ago, Noct’s long fingers not quite touching the ink that would soon set Gladio apart from the rest of the Guard. He rolled the brand in his fingers, its tip in the coals of the fire, postponing the last few burns.

He cleared his throat. “You two go.”

Prompto stopped pacing back and forth across the campsite. He hadn’t spoken for the last few hours, but instantly, he cried out. “We’re not leaving you here!”

“It would be unwise,” Ignis added.

Gladio shook his head. “Not what I meant. Give me ten minutes. I gotta finish it on my own.”

They hesitated, but melted away into the trees, Ignis saying, “Ten minutes _exactly_.”

The memory of Noct reached out to him again, adolescent awkwardness overlaid with a man’s grace in Gladio’s jumbled head.

The iron touched down. Noctis’s fingers finally met the ink. The tears running down Gladio’s face weren’t from the pain.

—

Later, Prompto would tell Gladio he envied him. How he had a way to show his pain. His ugly scars, the remnants of the symbol of his pride and duty, were an obvious marker of what he’d survived.

Gladio didn’t have the heart to tell him that a Shield _always_ died with his king.


End file.
